Gemma, however, was clearly bored by his absence and anxious about the Christmas festivities. As if to reassure herself that these would actually take place, she asked, after a lot of fumbling around the subject, if they could use my spare room. She meant with their own sheets and towels and bathrobe, as a sort of holy place undefiled by me (unlike my bed, my sofa and my carpet) but it took her a long time to say so. ‘Just to have somewhere private that really belongs to us,’ she said finally, then added with a flash of her old spirit, ‘like renting a room without actually paying for it. You wouldn’t mind, would you? Our own special place, in your flat, only separate. Where we could leave things and come back to them.’
I couldn’t resist saying, ‘You mean like Oswald and Miranda?’
She looked at me calmly, her eyes unclouded: the vision of the room, like a shrine, had uplifted her. ‘Oh. I’d forgotten about them.’
After she had gone I inspected the spare room. It had an impoverished air, like all rooms that are seldom used: it seemed to have collected the worst furniture, and not just the worst but the most ill-assorted. Nothing matched; periods were jumbled together; the curtains and bedspread were thin and cold. It would require a lot of doing up, and it needed a large mirror. Gemma deserved the best. On the other hand I resented the very idea of spending money to benefit David, to whom I had already handed a pearl beyond price. It was an interesting problem, a genuine dilemma, and I lit a rare cigar and poured a not so rare brandy so that I might perch on its horns in greater comfort. I liked the idea of creating a love-nest; I liked even more the idea of disporting myself in it after the lovers had gone. It would remove once and for all the bother of working out where the action had taken place – all that undignified sniffing and peering. It would concentrate the essence of the affair in one room, rather like having a chapel in one’s own home. I could light candles and burn incense, if the spirit moved me. I was impressed that it was Gemma who had thought of it, out of a desire for privacy, no doubt, which she had mentioned before; but it was nevertheless a creative idea and I had not thought Gemma capable of such artistry. I only hoped she did not plan to add a key: I doubted if I could be as adept at picking locks as opening letters, and it would be boring to be forced to behave like a burglar under one’s own roof.
When David arrived to do his post-rehearsal stint and collect his mail, I was tempted to tell him what Gemma had suggested, but I restrained myself. It was amusing to know something he didn’t, so instead, as a kind of compromise, I got him to clean the spare room; I pretended uninvited guests. He was tired and bad-tempered, requiring several drinks, but it was worth it to me, knowing that he was himself preparing the temple for his own use. I had been annoyed and jealous that his policy with Gemma was working so well, that his scheme could induce pallor and tension and anxiety so simply, and I had not thought of it, because of my impatience for action. But this, listening to the growl of the vacuum cleaner, watching him dusting and polishing, this made it all worthwhile. The balance was restored.
(5)
‘Darling David,
God, it was fantastic this afternoon. I didn’t know I could come so many times so quickly – I really had no idea it could be like that. What are you doing to me? You’re going to make me so dissatisfied at home – no, I don’t mean that, it will be all right, the way we said it would be right at the start, but it is going to be harder than I thought, like being two people. I feel so split – the good wife at home going through the motions once a fortnight and then today with you when I went right over the top so many times. I wish to God I could describe it properly so you’d really know how fantastic you make me feel but I can’t – oh, why can’t I? That long slow climb – only no effort – and then at the very top knowing I’m going to go right over the edge and nothing can stop me and down I go like that dream of falling only marvellous not frightening like blacking out for a second because the feeling’s so strong it’s as if I’ll explode if I stay conscious. No wonder people used to think it took years off your life – or was it days? Worth it anyway. Who wants to live long without that feeling? I keep thinking of skiing – the chair lift and the downhill racer – but that just makes it sound silly. Oh hell. I do so want you to know the pleasure you give me – I can’t believe I do anything like as much for you but I wish I could. God how I wish I could.
It was amazing when you rang – I really was resigned to waiting two weeks – as soon as I heard your voice I got such a pain because I wanted you so much. I’d been trying not to think about it because I didn’t want to masturbate, it always depresses me afterwards. And I thought I’d hate us only having half an hour but instead it was wonderful.
Oh I must stop, I’m just rambling on and not saying half what I want to say. I’ll keep my fingers crossed about Xmas but at least we’ve had today. I must be very careful or Chris really will get suspicious if I keep going around with a goofy smile on my face!
Don’t get run over, will you?
Gemma’
Well, that was better. Worth all my manual dexterity and the steam and the glue and the photo-copying machine. Worth it to know that Gemma had finally discovered the delights of multiple orgasm. (I envied her.) Worth it that I had been summarily turfed out into the cold street so that they could have what David inelegantly described as a quickie. Myself, I would have thought that a quickie involving multiple orgasm was a contradiction in terms, but his definition was half an hour hard at it with no time for chat. Even more to the point, Gemma had been summoned at only two hours’ notice after ten days’ starvation: it was a kind of test case, apparently, to see how highly motivated she was to rearrange her domestic life on the instant in the interest of sexual fulfilment, and she had passed with colours flying. Her reward was to be a leisurely erotic and gastronomic treat on the eve of Christmas Eve, but she didn’t know that yet. ‘I suppose you want me to cook,’ I said to him, and he said well, he couldn’t and wouldn’t, having neither the talent nor the wish. And he certainly couldn’t afford to take her out, he added, in case I was thinking of suggesting that. As with Beatrice, I felt uneasy at the mention of money: was he perhaps angling for a rise? It seemed more appropriate that he should pay me, or at least work for nothing to show his appreciation of the privileges I was bestowing on him; and in any case were the television people not foolishly paying him some vast amount for his dubious services – enough at least to buy Gemma a meal? Tactfully, I attempted to imply all that, only to be greeted with a diatribe: Cathy was (allegedly) shrieking like a fishwife about unpaid bills and the impossibility of providing Christmas festivities for the children on the pittance he gave her; the gas, electricity and telephone seemed in imminent danger of disconnection. All in all, my ill-wishing had worked well: the picture painted was of such financial blackness that his only hope of a square and romantic meal this side of next year would be one provided by me.
And of course I wanted to do it. Only not to be taken for granted. I like to be cajoled. As often as possible.
After he had gone (the so-called quickie representing a rehearsal unexpectedly cut short), I brooded. It sounds like something connected with old women or hens, but there is no other word for it. Obsession is a strange device for concentrating the mind: it takes over your life: it replaces everything else. I looked it up in the dictionary once and it means (in practice) exactly what it says (in theory) – not something that can be claimed for every word in the language, alas. ‘The action of besieging,’ I read, ‘investment, siege.’ I had certainly invested a great deal in Gemma, and my flat was frequently assailed. ‘Actuation by the devil or an evil spirit from without; the fact of being thus actuated.’ My only quarrel here, perhaps a little petty, was concerned with the direction from which the evil spirit came. I preferred to consider it very much a spirit from within; I flattered myself that I could produce, with total concentration, as much mischief as the devil in an idle moment. One yields to the experts, of course: in my case, more effort was required. The amateur cannot
hope to surpass the professional in any sphere, but I believe equality can be achieved by perseverance and dedication and a bit of overtime.
Perhaps my dictionary had been compiled before it was acceptable to assume responsibility for such matters oneself: they had to be superstitiously attributed to a supernatural agency or else the sky would fall in. (Not that such an event would be entirely unwelcome: it would at least make a change and, incidentally, fulfil one of my favourite fantasies.) Finally, ‘the action of any influence, notion or “fixed idea”, which persistently assails or vexes’. Well, that seemed to me exactly what Gemma’s and David’s affair was doing to me – persistently assailing and (occasionally) vexing. And it certainly was a fixed idea: no other notion or influence ever entered my head. You may ask, But surely there were other people, friends, work, leisure activities? and I answer, Yes, there were, a few, or at least the choice of them, but they did not count, they were motions to be gone through, trivia, refuse; they might as well not have existed (and in a sense they did not). My whole life was given over to the creation of a doomed love affair; and why not indeed? Sufficient artistic preoccupation, you might think, for anyone.
So I brooded: hen, old woman, obsessive – what you will. Which is why Gemma’s letter afforded me particular relief. I did not much admire her style, the ineffectual efforts to describe orgasm (a rock on which far greater talents have perished) but I did admire her courage in attempting such an unlikely feat. A noble failure, I thought. And it was rewarding to know that the whole scene (as Oswald and Miranda would have called it) was hotting up nicely.
* * *
At my age you do not expect surprises, nor are they welcome; so I was most disagreeably taken aback when the telephone rang next day and a cool, unmistakable voice I had heard only once before said, ‘Mr Kyle?’ in tones of resignation.
I said yes, as one is bound to do.
‘This is Catherine Meredith,’ the voice announced unnecessarily, for who else could it have been? That light, clear voice was unforgettably recorded in my head. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant, in fact conspicuously neutral, but instantly recognisable for the rest of my life, if I live (which God forbid) for a hundred years.
‘I’m afraid we really will have to have a talk,’ said the voice, not angry, not sad, but suggesting duty and commonsense like a dentist. ‘Would tomorrow suit you?’
‘A talk?’ I said, playing for time and feeling it run out simultaneously. ‘What about?’
‘You’re an intelligent man,’ said the voice wearily. ‘About your niece and my husband, of course, what else? And tomorrow really is the best day because David’s in the studio, as you must know, so we’re bound to be undisturbed. Unless your niece turns up, of course.’
She made us sound like conspirators already. (But how had she found out?)
‘Mrs Meredith,’ I said, ‘why do we have to have a talk at all?’ I was cooking at the time for David’s and Gemma’s love-feast only two days ahead; she could hardly have rung at a more unsuitable moment. ‘I’m sure I’ll be delighted to meet you at any time, but what is this urgency?’
She sighed. ‘Surely you realise there may be a tragedy if one of us doesn’t take steps to prevent it.’
There ensued a long silence which it occurred to me Mrs Meredith had no intention of breaking. Short of hanging up on her, which etiquette forbade, I was obliged to answer.
‘All right, Mrs Meredith,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. What time would be convenient?’
She answered crisply, ‘Any time between nine and three.’
I shuddered at such possibilities. ‘Shall we say half past eleven?’ That way there seemed a good chance of getting rid of her before lunch, although I very much wished I had the courage to suggest half past two.
‘That’ll be fine. I’ll see you then.’
She seemed about to go; I was forced to add, ‘Don’t you want my address?’
‘It’s on the envelope,’ she said, and hung up.
So that was how she had found out. I warmed to Mrs Meredith, a reader of other people’s letters, like myself. My curiosity was aroused; I should be happy to meet her. Mrs Meredith was clearly a woman to be reckoned with. But tomorrow? It was rather soon. I returned to my pâté, my chestnut stuffing, my chocolate mousse (for obviously as much as possible must be prepared in advance to be eaten cold in order to allow the heat of passion to rage freely.) I was less relaxed; there was no doubt about that. Only the roast would be actually cooking on the day, and they could lift that from the oven and carve it without too much effort, and content themselves with cold vegetables. What was I to say to Mrs Meredith and, worse, what was she to say to me? The chocolate mousse, normally the easiest thing in the world, promptly gave me trouble, as if sensing my agitation.
I slept badly that night. The hours raced and crawled with a peculiar jerky motion all their own. I took pills, slept, woke, drank water and looked at the clock. The night seemed endless. Catherine Meredith, unknown and inescapable, loomed before me. I longed to dream of her, as if to prepare myself, but she eluded me, very much a waking phantom, a hideous (or delectable) reality. David’s wife. What was I expecting? I tried to get foreign stations on the radio to ease my suspense and fell instead into a jumble of sound. Towards dawn I slept soundly, exhausted by my imagination; at eight the telephone rang. It could be no one else: she must be ringing to cancel our bizarre appointment. I seized the instrument and croaked a greeting. Pips. Then a dialling tone.
After that there was no hope for me. A wrong number or a cruel joke, it made no difference; I lay awake, my head throbbing, while I pictured David and Catherine, Gemma and Christopher, all cosily tucked up in their respective beds. Or were they already rising to deal with their revolting children? No matter. As far as I knew, they had spent the night in peaceful marital slumber. They had not been racked as I was by doubt and uncertainty, or if they were, they were not alone to endure it. Moreover, Gemma was looking forward to the trysting day, David and Christopher were absorbed in their work, and Catherine Meredith, who would no doubt turn out to be a prize bitch, was preparing to make my life a misery. Why had I ever imagined it would be a pleasure to meet her?
Somebody once said that not sleeping doesn’t matter so long as you are resting. I lay in bed stubbornly until ten o’clock, trying to rest, but the fact that I had not slept preyed on my mind. At ten I rose and went lugubriously through my morning routine: breakfast, bath, clothes. There was no post. No letters to steam open. (It was surprising I did not open them all that way by now.) And just as well; my hands would have been unsteady. I was totally preoccupied with the irrational fear that Catherine Meredith would somehow get the better of me.
I was ready early, sitting miserably waiting for her. For a man of my age to feel at such a disadvantage was ludicrous and undignified. I should have been excited. I should have laid plans. I should have had the upper hand – or at the very least felt assured that we would meet on equal terms. Instead I sat huddled, a miserable sight in the mirror, like a chicken fluffing out its feathers. I awaited my fate.
She was precisely on time, as I had known she would be. I would have staked what was left of my life on that. The owner of that voice could not be late. The bell struck a solid chill into my soul, like an ice cube descending whole into the stomach. On my way to the door I felt myself putting on a brave face: I knew the feel of the stiff mask over my skin.
‘Mr Kyle.’
‘Mrs Meredith.’
I was so nervous I hardly saw her as I let her in. Once in the sitting-room she glanced all round it searchingly as though looking for dust. I half expected her to run a finger over the furniture. While she inspected the room, I began to look at her.
‘Well,’ she said at last, drawing out the word, ‘he certainly does you proud. I’m glad about that. I’m glad he’s good at something.’
She sat down and lit a cigarette.
I said, ‘Mrs Meredith, what can I do for you?’
‘
You might as well call me Catherine.’ She sat unmoving, unblinking: as cold and still as a corpse. Whatever I had expected, I had not been prepared for this extremity of thinness and pallor. Her hair was pale brown, her eyes grey, her skin beige. And not an atom of make-up. I was used to women who painted their faces. There seemed no colour in any part of her, just luminous bones. Even her clothes were neutral: a straw-coloured shirt and a long woollen skirt the shade of putty.
‘After all,’ she said, ‘we’re probably going to see a lot of each other.’
I thought that extremely unlikely and said so, hoping I had not also revealed the intense panic I felt at such a prospect.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice quite expressionless. ‘These things always take time, Mr Kyle. Believe me.’
‘In that case,’ I said politely, ‘would you like to call me Alexander?’
She studied me and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re a lot older than I am and I don’t think it’s very polite calling older people by their first names, do you?’
Had there been any wind in my sails, that would certainly have taken it out. Both she and David seemed hell-bent on reminding me how old I was – as if I could ever forget it. In my mind the sand slipped through the hourglass continuously, causing me both terror and relief.
‘At my great age I hardly know any older people.’ It was not that I was offended exactly: her manner was matter of fact enough to take the sting out of her words. But I judged it best to lighten the proceedings if I possibly could.
An Evil Streak Page 10